Our Red String of Destiny
by Diaphanous
Summary: Written for hell-kill. Harry Potter was free from the threat of Voldemort but still locked away in a cage at Privet Drive. Malik Al-Sayf just wanted some peace and quiet for once. Throw in higher beings granting wishes and a special time-turner. Mix well.


**Our Red String of Destiny**

_Assassin's Creed/Harry Potter crossover; slash_

_Disclaimer_: I don't own either one of these. Too bad...

_WARNINGS: Malik/Harry slash; smutty version at my LJ._

Dedicated to **hell-kill** who asked for a Malik/Harry pairing. Hope you enjoy it!

000/000

Golden sand glittered in the tiny hourglass embedded in the spinning pendant. Panic crossed Harry James Potter's face at the sight of the floating necklace that held the pendant. How did it get here to Privet Drive? And several nights right before his sixteenth birthday at that? Did Hermione send it? But no, that wasn't like her at all. The boy wizard let out a surprised scream when it flew straight at him and the delicate glass containing the time-sand broke on the flat planes of his chest. The ending echo of the scream lodged in his throat as he was whisked away in a flash of gold light.

The time-turner remnants fell to the floor with a tinkling sound; its sand gone along with its victim. And then slowly it faded into nothingness.

Far to the north, in a magical castle located in Scotland, alarms blared and squealed as soon as young Harry disappeared. An old man with a long white beard dressed in a white nightshirt and violently purple dressing gown stumbled into the office. His vivid blue eyes widened behind his half-moon spectacles as his silver instruments emitting said alarms glowed red and then exploded. He shielded his face with his arm. His pet phoenix squawked and disappeared in a flash of flame. Once the last crackle and pop died away, Albus Dumbledore lowered his arm. His heavily lined face drooped in horror and despair. The portraits of Headmasters and Headmistresses past started shouting all at once. The great wizard staggered toward his fireplace, grabbing the Floo powder and throwing it into the flames.

"Minerva," Dumbledore croaked as he fell to his knees and stuck his head in. "Minerva!"

"My goodness, Albus! Whatever is the matter?" a witch asked as she knelt down by her own fireplace.

"Get dressed! We must get to Privet Drive!"

Minerva McGonagall gasped, knowing exactly where he meant. "Is it Harry? What is it?" she cried.

"No questions for we have no time! Quickly!" Dumbledore drew away to end the call. He stood hurriedly and ran to his quarters to get dressed. As the white-haired man threw on his clothes, shadows filled his heart. Why did his trackers explode? What had happened to young Harry? Surely Tom's remaining Death Eaters had not gotten to the boy? With grim determination, the Headmaster strode out of his quarters, exited his ruined office, and headed down the steps that were usually hidden behind a gargoyle. There his Deputy stood with a frantic expression on her face. "Come, we will Apparate. You know the way."

"Yes, Headmaster."

'Please, Harry, be there...'

000/000

But all hope seemed lost for there was nothing and no one to be found in Harry Potter's room.

000/000

Somewhere in the cosmos, Fate and Destiny performed an uncharacteristic high-five with one another while Death rolled his eyes and went back to watching his favorite wizard mortal.

000/000

Ink and its container went flying into the air, the black liquid splashing across his face and the front of his robes. Malik Al-Sayf stood there in dripping surprised horror, gapping at the young man that had fallen from the ceiling in flash of glittering gold light. "What sorcery is this?" he rasped. He grimaced and spit when ink got into his mouth. Using the sleeve covering his single arm, the rafiq wiped at his face, which smeared the writing fluid across his dusky skin and his rough goatee. He went around the counter to kneel down by the youth. He frowned at the sight of cream colored skin that seemed milk white compared to the unruly black mess that passed as hair. From the arrangement of the facial features in combination with the pale complexion, Malik concluded that he was some infidel from the lands of the Lionhearted monarch, King Richard and his ilk.

How unpleasantly unwelcome.

Tentative fingertips brushed against the mottled bruising that marred the boy's thin, almost starved features. Malik knew the signs of abuse well enough. But who would hurt someone so obviously pale and young? Surely, with that creamy skin and aristocratic nose and cheekbones, this was a highborn child. An English or Frankish blueblood boy of perhaps fourteen summers had no business being beaten and starved. Hurt yes, but only for training. And how he arrived in the Assassin's Bureau was cause for concern as well.

Malik straightened up and stood when he heard the sound of boots thumping down from the rooftop into the entrance of the Bureau. He turned and scowled as a novice screeched to a halt at the sight of his ink-stained rafiq. "Novice, take this boy to the secondary rest area. And do it carefully," he commanded.

"Yes, Master," the novice squeaked as he scrambled over to where Malik was standing. With gentle hands, while sweating bullets under the rafiq's steely black glare, he lifted the strange boy in overly baggy and foreign clothes into his arms and cradled him like a babe. The younger assassin noted how light and small the boy was and he had seen the painful looking bruises on the thin face of his cargo. He grimaced and set the boy down on the pile of pillows, carefully arranging slender limbs for maximum comfort. He then back away to stand by his bemused looking rafiq. "Who is he, Master?"

"This is not the time to ask such questions," Malik replied coolly. He quickly led the way back into the main room. "Now report." He calmly listened to the novice and then dismissed him to main resting area of the Bureau just outside of the door. With a sigh, the rafiq followed after him to clean his face at the fountain. He would change his clothes after washing his stained skin.

000/000

Harry was dreaming of a strange place. It was a room with no doors or windows. The walls were a dark shade of purple; the ceiling was green, and the floor red. But in the middle of the ceiling was a large black spot that was faded at the edges. He reached out and brushed his fingertips against the wall that he was closest to in curiosity, frowning at the image of a scythe with a crow perched on the blade painted onto it. It felt like a normal sort of wall, very Muggle really. On the opposite wall was a tapestry of a spindle, again Muggle. The tiny hairs rose up on the back of his neck and the wizard whirled around. He blinked in surprise at the white-haired man standing in the room with him, who didn't look a day over thirty despite the color of his hair. This was definitely not Voldemort...

"Do you know what the colors mean, young Potter?" the stranger asked. His pale blue eyes were piercing as they gazed down at the short teen wizard.

The teen shook his head. "No, sir," he answered warily. "Who are you? How do you know my name?"

"You can call me... Thànatos. And besides I thought everyone knew your name. Now then, back to my question." The white-haired man smiled mysteriously and gestured toward the walls. "The colors are quite important, at least in correlation to you. Do you know what this room is?"

"No, I don't know that either," Harry said in frustration. "What is this room since you seem to know?"

"You are a cheeky child," Thànatos murmured. He smiled wider. "This room is your soul room." He pointed up at the black spot. "And that is Voldemort's taint."

The young wizard jerked his body in surprise and horror, staring up at the spot. "Oh Merlin..." he cried out softly.

"Calm yourself, child. It is inactive now and fading fast. He cannot touch you since you defeated him and cut off his links to his Horcruxes. Though he did before and for that I am sorry."

"Sorry..." Harry murmured. "You and a lot of other people." His vivid green eyes glared at the stranger named Thànatos. "So if this is my soul room, what do the colors mean?"

"Let's go with the obvious," Thànatos replied. "Black can mean evil," he ignored the snort from the teen, "power, sophistication, mystery and death." A strange twist of his lips added a sardonic feel to his smiling face. "Purple can mean magic, hence why it colors the walls since that is the most surface area. It can also mean passion, wisdom, vision, and royalty. Green is life, growth, money, and healing. It appears you may have an untapped gift for the last considering the shade of green."

"And the red?" Harry demanded with a gesture toward the floor.

"Again passion, you are a hot-headed sort to be sure. Also urgency, excitement, and, for you in particular, it means danger." The blue-eyed stranger shrugged. "These colors are you to the very core of your being. Even the black."

"So what are you doing here in my soul room?" the brunet wizard snapped.

"You and I are connected but not in the same way Voldemort was connected with you. That connection was forced and like I said, it is fading now. The painting behind you is our link; those are my symbols and you really need to brush up on your Greek. Best figure it out before I come back." Thànatos laughed, snapped his fingers, and disappeared.

000/000

Malik wondered when the boy would wake. He had questions that needed answering.

000/000

Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, staring up at the painting of the scythe and crow. But what did the two have in common? The wizard rubbed his forehead. What? What? What? Then Harry froze as his hand slowly slid down his face to flop onto his lap. Oh, what was the one thing that he was known for surviving, the one bond he had? Death; the scythe and the crow were symbols of death. Immediately the wizard freaked out over the fact that a person claiming to be Death had been waltzing about in his soul.

"Figured it out, did you?" Thànatos said from behind him once again. He chuckled when the teen scrambled up to his feet. "Do not fear. I have not come for you yet."

"What's going on?" Harry asked as he pressed his back against the painting of scythe and crow.

Thànatos sighed. "We are not done with the explanations yet. I will get to that question soon enough, my chosen. Now then, the tapestry, do you know what it depicts?"

"A spindle," the green-eyed wizard replied warily. "And no, I don't know the meaning."

"Cheeky." The man proclaiming to be Death shook his head. "It represents Fate and Destiny. Or the Fates, whichever. Weaving is associated with Fate, you see. Hence a spindle and thread. A tapestry ties in with the theme. So you see, you are bound to me, Death, and to Fate and Destiny."

"The Prophecy," Harry gasped. "But it was fulfilled, though."

"Yes, among other things. But just because it was fulfilled doesn't mean that you don't still have ties to Fate and Destiny."

"So what does the time-turner have to do with anything? I thought that all of them, except for Hermione's, were destroyed after..." Speaking of the confrontation at the Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries hurt and the words clogged up in his throat. It didn't matter that Voldemort was gone for good this time, destroyed when their wands met again in battle. The grief was still too near for the one that he had lost. "Sirius," Harry managed to gurgle out. "Wait! You're Death; you can bring him back!"

"I'm sorry. I can't."

"WHY?"

Thànatos scowled. "It doesn't work like that. The Veil is one-way. Besides, it doesn't lead into my realm," he answered.

Harry blinked in surprise, the grief clearing for a moment. "Then where does it lead to?" he asked.

"I'm not allowed to say. As to the time-turner? Well, it wasn't an ordinary one. I don't suppose to saw the etchings on the pendant. No? I thought not. They were in Ancient Norse instead of the normally used Ancient Celtic. It allows you to not only travel back through time but also between spaces. Come here then. You do not speak Classical Arabic so I will imprint it into your mind, along with a few... history lessons for this dimension."

"But why? Why is this happening?"

"You were wishing to be somewhere else, yes? We higher beings owe you much. The splitting of souls is serious business but we could not interfere. Come." Thànatos waved him over. "I swear that it will not harm you."

"Okay," the teen said as he stepped over to stand before Thànatos. He inhaled shakily when the being's palm rested against his forehead, the long fingers settling through his long fringe. Warmth generated where their skin was touching and Harry sighed.

"Also, your glasses will be gone. Another gift to you. Now then," Thànatos spoke softly, his hand still on the wizard's head, "wake up."

000/000

Malik looked up when he heard his unexpected guest groan from inside the resting area. He wiped away the excess ink of his new quill and capped his new bottle of ink. Going around the counter, he entered the small room just in time to see the pale boy sit up and place a hand over his eyes. "Good you are awake," the Syrian said as he strode in. He jerked to a halt when the boy looked up at him. Never had he seen such bright, green eyes. The gaze that was examining him was intense and surprisingly arousing. He licked his lips and plowed through his arousal. "Who are you? How did you get here?"

"A wish," the boy rasped with a strange expression on his face, as if he was testing the taste of his words. "My name is Harry."

"English?"

"Not anymore," the boy replied. He began to examine the room with his eyes. "Where am I?"

"Jerusalem," Malik answered. He pursed his lips. He then crouched down by the pile of occupied pillows. "You appeared before me in such an interesting manner."

"Yes, well, I disappeared from my home in an interesting manner," Harry said. "I'm surprised you're not screaming about witches and burning me at the stake."

"I have seen many things, strange things. And I find that witchcraft is not much in compared to the evils in the hearts of men." Briefly he thought of his old Master, Al Mualim, and the corrupting power of the Apple of Eden. He knew that Altaïr had it with him in Masyaf to study it. The one-armed assassin shook his head. "It doesn't matter how you got here. But I suggest that you stay with me. Others would not be so lenient or understanding." Malik stood up from his crouch. "Tell me, do you know how to read and write?"

"I can."

"In Arabic?"

Harry's mysterious smile was baffling. "Surprisingly enough, yes to that as well," he answered.

"Good. You can help me with the book-keeping." Malik fought his attraction when the boy's smile lit up his pretty if bruised face. "But first new clothes. And you should burn the ones you have now. They are... foreign. Too foreign even by English standards."

"Gladly."

000/000

In the months that followed, Harry easily adjusted to life in Jerusalem at the Assassin's Bureau. His body improved from the good food, even though he would never get taller than five foot and six inches, and his mind from the company of Malik and the assassins that waltzed through to report findings or the elimination of targets. He had, in time, gained the trust of the rafiq and the others. Often he would scour the city and play informant to assassin Novices and Masters. He helped with the shopping for the Bureau and the book-keeping with Malik. In return the wizard received food, shelter, and tidbits of training to defend himself from thieves or corrupt guards.

Harry grew closer and closer to the one-armed rafiq.

The wizard never really thought about his sexuality except for the one disastrous date and kiss from Cho Chang. Since then he had sworn off of girls forever. Silly, emotional things. In a way, Harry felt asexual. But there was something about the sharp-tongued man who had taken him in and offered him a home. Every morning he looked forward to greeting Malik over breakfast. Sometimes, when there was a lull, they would play chess. He felt a rush of excitement every time their fingers brushed when he handed the older man a book or a bottle of ink or a piece of parchment. He wanted to bury his face between the rafiq's shoulder blades and nuzzle into the hollow that formed between the bony plates covered in strong muscle.

Hell, Harry wanted to drop to his knees before the man and beg to be taken. Which was embarrassing. And what would be considered lube in the twelfth century anyway? The sixteen-year-old didn't know and was too embarrassed to ask. And he hated the women that came into the Bureau with their giggling and soft voices and softer bodies. Fire burned through his veins whenever they flirted with the assassin rafiq. He never noticed when several girls would look him over in the markets with speculation. No, Harry only had eyes for Malik.

"Harry, stop daydreaming!" Malik snapped, flicking the wizard's ear.

Harry jumped up to stand from his pillow seat by the chessboard and looked sheepishly at his love interest. "Ahaha, sorry, Master," he said with a blush staining his cheeks. He bit his lower lip under the scrutiny of those black eyes. "How can I help you?"

"I asked you if you wanted lunch. Or perhaps you wish to starve yourself until dinner?"

The big smile that spread across the wizard's face made Malik fidget. "I'd love to have lunch with you, Rafiq," he said.

Malik harrumphed and turned away. Harry never saw the blush that spread across his dusky cheeks.

000/000

"...and then he..." Harry was chattering excitedly as he and Malik pushed their way through the crowds of the marketplace. The wizard was carrying their basket which had several vegetables, a block of cheese, and a wrapped package of dried meat in it and gesturing with his free hand.

Malik glanced down at his companion from the corner of his eye, a smile twitching up the corners of his mouth. The smooth tenor voice of the teen was pleasing compared to the cacophony that was the people crowding the morning market. Bright green eyes sparkled up at him while their owner gracefully dodged people and pickpocketing hands with arousing ease.

"Can you believe him? I mean, honestly..." the wizard continued his little diatribe as they finally left the market to head for the Bureau.

The one-armed assassin would hum or grunt in the appropriate places in the one-sided conversation. When they arrived, the two set about putting away their would-be lunch items. Then they stood in the kitchen in an awkward silence. It was broken by Malik. "We can't keep doing this, Harry," he said. He winced as despair clouded the younger man's face.

"Do you want me to leave?" Harry asked in a tiny voice.

Malik sighed and moved closer to the point where, if Harry had been taller, they would have been nose-to-nose. "That's not what I meant," the rafiq replied. "This dance that we're doing. It is... stressful. Distracting. And I hate how those giggly girls fawn over you in the market. You are mine." With that, he bent down and pressed his lips against Harry's mouth. Triumph filled him when the teen moaned and opened up after he swiped his tongue along the seam of the younger's lips. He wrapped his single arm around that slender waist, his fingers digging into a robe-clad hip. They both panted as their tongues tangled together. Malik could taste the honey and bread of Harry's breakfast and he groaned. The one kiss progressed into a series of spine-tingling kisses. Malik's tongue now thrust in and out in an imitation of what he wanted to do with the wizard's body. The dark-eyed man felt Harry's fingers tangle in the cloth covering his chest. When they finally parted, the assassin rafiq smirked at the sight of his wizard's flushed cheeks, heavy lidded gaze, and moist, swollen lips. "Mine."

Harry pressed his lips against Malik's throat. "So this is destiny," he murmured against the skin beneath his mouth. Then he smirked up at Malik and slowly shimmied his way down to his knees, sliding his body along Malik's. The Syrian braced his body with his palm against the kitchen counter as he watched the wizard undo, but not take off, his belts and pants to reach in with deft fingers. He cried out as that clever hand wrapped around the shaft of his arousal and started to stroke. "I want this inside me."

"You will be the death of me," Malik rasped, his fingers digging into the counter and his hips giving little thrusts. He let out a choked gasp when a warm, wet tongue swiped along the head of his arousal. "My sleeping quarters, now!" He growled as his soon-to-be lover swayed back up and trotted out toward Malik's room. Malik hurried after him.

A traumatized novice fled the Bureau as the moaning started.

000/000

**END**

(smut ending at my LiveJournal) XD


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